


On the Battlefield of Hell

by Fuuma_san, Mirach_art (Mirach)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale doesn't fall, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Blood and Gore, Community: Do It With Style Events, How Aziraphale becomes a Prince of Hell, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Sexual Content, Other, Rated For Violence, The hurt is mostly physical not emotional or mental, Tournaments, happy ending I promise, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29192187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuuma_san/pseuds/Fuuma_san, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/pseuds/Mirach_art
Summary: Aziraphale marched into Hell almost immediately after Crowley was discorporated. No stupid accident would steal Crowley from him. He would go wherever Crowley was, he would find him, and he would get him back. Wherever he went, Aziraphale would come for him. Even to the feet of the Fallen Morning Star himself.Satan has his own plan to trick an angel into either Falling or being permanently killed. He doesn't mind either way.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 70
Kudos: 83
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, Hurt Aziraphale





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is Team 45 collaboration for the Do It With Style Event's Reverse Bang! Thanks go out to the moderators and to my artist partner Mirach! I hope you enjoy!

“Give him back,” Aziraphale mustered all of his courage to say while craning his neck to look up at the devil himself in all his demonic glory. He was just glad he sounded unfazed, and maintained his composure. Satan could look like anything he wanted, he was that powerful a creature, but he chose to be massive, several stories taller than all other beings, with red scales for skin that blackened on the edges, as if crisped by an internal fire. Dramatic, like all demons, his own included, but with the power to back it up.

Satan himself snarled down at him and it took the last scraps of his resolve not to flinch. Sitting on his blackened throne, draped in platinum regalia, his crown of horns dripping with ichor, he made an intimidating sight. 

The bravado covering a cesspool of fear and terror that Aziraphale refused to acknowledge was threatening to slip. He had marched into Hell almost immediately after Crowley discorporated. Discorporation had always been an inconvenience, but after their retirement it became the biggest danger that they might lose one another forever. One stupid human driving one of their infernal automobiles wasn't going to be the end of their lives together. Aziraphale's anger and frustration with the whole situation, the fragility of human corporations, had gotten him this far, so he stoked those fires. No stupid accident would steal Crowley from him. He would go wherever Crowley was, he would find him, and he would get him back. Wherever he went, Aziraphale would come for him. Even to the feet of the fallen Morning Star himself.

Satan's eyes drilled into Aziraphale's, a silent battle of wills. "Why should I?" Satan eventually said, looming. Demons were so good at looming and lurking and other nefarious l-verbs, but years of Crowley doing it when he wanted to win a fight had thankfully inured Aziraphale to it. 

The angel straightened his coat, brushing invisible dust from the sleeve, mind racing. He hadn't thought of a reason beyond "He's mine" and that was not a thought he was prepared to say out loud. Instead, he carefully spelled out, "Because... It would be incredibly troublesome for you if all the angels of Heaven were immune to hellfire." 

Satan snarled so loud it reverberated around the throne room, stood up and roared, "ALL OF YOU. GET OUT." 

The demons in attendance scattered, even the royalty sauntering out with hastened dignity, leaving Aziraphale alone with Satan, Emperor of Hell and wanna-be God. 

"Wouldn't want that secret leaked, now would we?" Aziraphale guessed, remembering Beelzebub's reaction to his Hellish bath time as Crowley. 

Satan ground his teeth and glared down. Aziraphale had hit the nail on the head, so he leaned into it.

"Imagine how much worse it would be if Heaven knew but Hell didn't. You don't really think I would come all this way on my own without any insurance, do you?" Aziraphale bluffed. 

They stated at one another, at a standoff, when finally Satan sat back down, flinging his clothes back with a flourish. “Fine,” he said, "but I can't just let you walk out of here."

"Why not?"

"Do you want demons knocking on your door to find out how you two just waltzed out of Hell?"

"No, definitely not."

"Good." His eyes gleamed, and his sharp teeth were on full display as he said, "You'll have to fight for him."

Aziraphale blinked. "Fight?"

Satan snapped his fingers and a gong sounded in the distance, followed by riotous cheering. "Fight. If you win, I'll give the demon Crowley a body and let you leave with him. Deal?" 

The conspicuous absence of what would happen if he lost bothered Aziraphale, but he had come all this way, gotten this far. Crowley was down here somewhere, alone and feeling the lingering pains of his recent discorporation. He had no choice but to agree, and then win.

"Deal."

Satan waved his arm with a flourish. The opulent throne room disappeared and they were transported to the middle of a cavern, so massive inside that Aziraphale couldn’t see the ceiling. At least, he presumed it had a ceiling, but the only light was from thousands of burning pits. Stinking, boiling sulfur dotted the floor. Hellfire danced with a life of its own along some of the pits, making shadows flicker in the cracks and crags of raw rock. Thousands of demons surrounded them, the walls made into stadium seating filled with jeering demons, some even the air around them, their insectoid wings buzzing as they hovered. 

“Welcome to the Crucible! These are the demons who want to fight an angel,” Satan said, flashing teeth in a threatening grin. 

Aziraphale blanched, going cold as the blood drained from his skin. There was no way he could defeat this many demons, alone, unaided. The room itself wanted him dead and obliterated, with it’s erratic flares of Hellfire, much less all of the people. He’d never stand a chance. 

He wished he’d at least gotten to see Crowley one last time. His dashing smile, or even his annoyed little forehead wrinkles, so telling above his sunglasses.

Satan laughed, deep and booming. The nearest demons flinched, retreating a few steps in their fear. Aziraphale did not. As the laughter vibrated through him and he merely shifted, widening his stance to connect with the ground. Firm and unyielding, ready to defend. He was a principality, he was made to protect, made to hold firm. He was built for this. 

"You said one fight," said Aziraphale.

“I never said that. I only said  _ to _ fight. But fear not, I'm not a cruel ruler. They have chosen the ten from among them to fight you. When you fail, the rest will get to eat what’s left.” Disgust curled Aziraphale’s lip, but it only pleased Satan and he continued, “Unless you Fall first. That’s where we are, you know. The Crucible is the deepest pit of Hell. Each crater is where one of us landed after the Fall, where the last of our divinity was burned from our bodies, scoured from our souls. Where the weakness was burned from us, leaving us pure and strong. Step carefully, little angel. You may be immune to Hellfire, but the pits hunger. It’s been six thousand years since their last meal.”

Aziraphale Glanced at the pits and felt his resolve waver. He had been foolish, bravehearted but foolish, for even coming. Satan gestured and a twelve foot tall demon stepped forward from the crowd, his muscles rippling and horns sharp. He had wide-set eyes, bulging awkwardly from the sides of his cow-like face, and long claws that he flexed in the air, ready. The regalia of a Lord of Hell glittered on his chest.

Satan boomed, “First up— Barberith, my earl of burning, may he singe the flesh from your carcass.”

Aziraphale was fat. And soft. And hated war, hated fighting. The power of his own divinity, so distant from Heaven that it was nearly imperceptible, felt so fragile, so tenuous that it flickered like a lone star on a cold night. He was alone, the love of his life discorporated and in the hands of these monsters, without even his flaming sword. His fists and his wits were all that stood between himself and total annihilation. 

He ignored the approaching demon, turned to Satan and said, “Would you mind terribly if I set aside my coat? I’ve had it for over a century and I’d hate to stain it.” Satan cackled, gesturing to go ahead.

The righteous wrath of an angel was inside him, steadying like a hand on his back, so he embraced it. Satan had tried to trick him by being purposefully vague, but he would get through this, get his Crowley back. He looked straight in the eyes of the approaching demon, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and beckoned him to attack.

It was easier to move in just his shirt and trousers, which Aziraphale was grateful for. Barberith, large and lumbering, was unable to best the angel’s maneuverability. They went back and forth for a while, the demon on the attack, Aziraphale having to expend all his efforts into dodging, before Aziraphale managed to land several solid blows to his solar plexus. The demon laughed them off but his overconfidence turned into an excellent opportunity. He didn’t even try to dodge the third, which was his downfall. At the last moment Aziraphale used a miracle to shapeshift his hand, changing his fingers to long, solid claws, stabbing into Barberith’s core and eviscerating him in one motion. 

The crowd inhaled, collectively surprised, leaving the air silent when Barberith screamed his last breath away, piercing and raw as he fell. Aziraphale stood, not certain of his own victory, his heart still pounding with the panic of battle. Flecks of black ichor covered his hand and speckled his bare forearms as he looked to a shocked Satan, loops of bowel still gripped in his shaking fist. 

A growl like rending fabric and earthquakes issued from behind him and Aziraphale whipped around to face the new threat. Separating from the crowd was a new demon, moving on all fours like a beast, with its head rattling and bouncing bonelessly, barely attached by a long scaly neck. It might have even been merely decorative, if unnerving things could be called that. Eyes lined it’s shoulders, swiveling every which way above what seemed to be mouths, if the lines and lines of teeth inside were anything to go by. 

“Veral,” Satan commanded, “Do better.”

“I will paint the room golden with angelic ichor, my lord,” it said, all three mouths moving in horrific synchrony. 

Aziraphale kicked the dead demon into the nearest sulfur pit, one less obstacle to trip on, and the crowd cheered, surprising him. Apparently, any irreverence would rile them up. God likely wouldn’t mind, if she happened to be watching. The preservation of life was a mitzvah to be held above all others, and discorporating demons to preserve his own life was justified. He silently prayed his apology for desecrating the body anyway. Just because they were demons didn’t mean they should be treated with disrespect. And in that, at least, he truly did not know if God would agree with him.

He assumed a defensive posture as Veral drew closer, flicking the blood from his still monstrous, befouled hands. The demon hissed, its teeth elongating into fangs, new mouths opening on its hands as it reached for him. It tried to grab him and sink its fangs into his flesh, but Aziraphale dodged. Veral was fast, his slithering necks moving separately from his body, attacking with multiple snapping jaws that Aziraphale only just avoided. He wouldn't be able to win with the same strategy as before. 

“Come now, let me bite you. Just a little. It won’t hurt… for long at leassst,” Veral taunted, beads of poison dripping from each of his many fangs. 

If he could have spared the distraction, Aziraphale would have rolled his eyes. “Your taunting is as pitiful as your ill-defined face.” 

The demon hissed in anger, snapping its teeth and lunging, until Aziraphale was backed to the edge of a burning pit. He pushed forward, on the attack. He had to avoid being envenomed or annihilated by fire, because if he died Hell might discover their immunity bluff and Crowley would be next. They weaved back and forth, no obvious openings of attack, and his legs grew tired of jumping and crouching. Again he became trapped against one of the pits, the heat of it burning his back. Sweat glued his shirt to him, and a flare of Hellfire singed the little hairs on his neck, but he couldn’t flinch, couldn’t show weakness. These demons believed he was impervious and for his own sake as well as Crowley’s, he had to maintain that belief. 

He smiled, a bead of sweat running down his face. "It always struck me as odd that Heaven is cold. It's nice to be warm for a change." 

Verbal cackled, a gutteral crackling sound as it clacked the teeth of it's many mouths. "Is it?"

The sting of a demonic miracle tickled his senses and suddenly Veral had a quarterstaff in his hands, the little mouths chomped down on the wood as it spun. It swiped the tip across the pool, flinging droplets of molten sulfur at Aziraphale, swiftly followed with an attack, jabbing the burning end at his face.

It was his chance. He let a few of the drops hit him, giving up fully dodging in order to parry with his forearm, twisting the staff around himself and using the demon’s own momentum to disarm it. He twirled the staff, firming his grim before attacking with a jab, landing a sharp blow right on it’s sternum. The mouths on it’s shoulders snarled and popped off, their own stalk necks forming to bite the weapon and try to wrench it back. Aziraphale couldn’t help but to recoil, losing his advantage. They struggled for control, neither willing to let go but neither able to overpower the other through strength alone.

Dropping down onto his back, the staff held tight against him Aziraphale kicked, flipping Veral up and over. The demon flew, landing face first in boiling sulfur. 

It didn’t even get the change to scream before it was burning, its grip on the staff slackening. Aziraphale took the weapon with a sharp yank. He turned back to Satan, who was glaring at him, and boomed, “Who’s next?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Dear Readers! I hope you're enjoying this fic! Aziraphale is kicking ass and taking names! [ Mirach ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach)has drawn lovely art for chapters 3 and 4 as well so look forward to that! FYI, the hurt is over after ch 4.
> 
> Comments and kudos fuel me, as usual. If you see any typos or SPAG errors let me know and I'll fix them, though hopefully I caught them all (my laptop broke while I was working on this so only unfamiliar and less preferred tech was used).


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale’s triumph couldn't last forever. He defeated two more demons after Veral— three long, hard fights. His only weapon was the burning staff until it shattered— He used the stub like a short sword until that too was destroyed when he defeated his fourth opponent. 

Now he faced a Duke of Hell, unarmed and tiring. She had swooped in, raining attacks from above with her massive griffon claws, and Aziraphale had no choice but to manifest his wings and take to the air. 

He still wasn’t sure that was the right choice. Duke Falocar was a master of aerial combat, completely at home on the updrafts of the sulfur pits, expending so much less effort to stay aloft than Aziraphale was. He was terrified of a protracted battle— he knew he would lose. She was fresh, and he had no idea how long he had been fighting. Hours? Days? The dark, featureless cavern gave him no clues. 

As he was flying something tore into the membrane of his wings and Aziraphale screamed. The crowd went wild, screaming their own triumphant cheers in response. Aziraphale bit his lip till it was bleeding, trying to hold back from giving them further satisfaction. It hurt, it hurt so badly because he couldn’t stop flying, couldn’t slow down, with every beat of his wings pulling the wound wider. He was right above a burning pit, Duke Falocar hot on his trail, her beak open in a rictus of a grin. 

How had she hit him? She had been out of reach, he’d been so careful to keep far away from her sharp talons. He dove, wings folded back slightly for speed to the largest pit he could see, the audience of insectoid demons scattering to get out of the way. Blessedly, hot air blasted up from the boiling molten sulfur and he spread his wings wide, catching the updraft and using it to glide up and around. The Duke followed, and they circled each other, gliding around the edge of the updraft. Aziraphale relaxed, trying to rest his sore muscles. 

She grinned, clearly seeing weakness and ready to take advantage. With a flick of her talons the very air sharpened, flying towards Aziraphale like an invisible blade. A lesser fighter might not have even seen it. As it was it took him by surprise badly enough that he couldn’t quite dodge it, and it sliced into his other wing, right on the joint. She crowed triumphantly as he started bleeding profusely, a few feathers falling to their doom. 

Distance wasn’t the solution, if she could turn the air itself into her blade. He needed a bolder, more risky plan.

_ No time like the present,  _ he thought and launched himself at her, shifting his feet to mirror hers. Their talons locked together, neither able to reach the other’s soft flesh as they spiraled down to the certain death below. Duke Falocar struggled, trying to control their descent, trying to push Aziraphale underneath her but he wouldn’t let her. 

Then she made a mistake. 

She retracted her claws, loosening her grip to try and reposition, but Aziraphale reached out with his hands, grabbing her by the base of her wings and pulled, knocking her off balance. She had no hands with which to counter, and though her wings were larger and more powerful, the damage was done. They landed in the fire, Aziraphale on top of her as she burned, the pungent stench of feathers and hair filling his senses as she sank into the bubbling sulfur. With all the power in his body he beat his wings, trying to fly away but she held tight as she burned, trying to pull him down with her. Flares of Hellfire danced towards them, hungry and eager, and the tips of his talons submerged, burning off. 

Aziraphale kicked, desperate as the Hellfire came closer to free himself, the panic injuring his wings further, covering them with blood that rapidly scorched black in the heat. He roared, his vision red with desperation and pulled free, rocketing up with the power of his own beating wings as the last of the duke burned up. 

He glided there, the crowd far away as his next opponent walked up to the edge of the pit, waiting. All he wanted was to weep, the pain and exhaustion undiminished now that the fight was over. He looked at his wings, so covered in soot and blood that they looked burned. A tiny miracle stemmed the bleeding. He couldn’t feel his feet— well, his talons— and they too were black and blistered, the claws burned to nubs. This was only half finished— five more demons, presumably stronger ones, still waited.

When he landed it was snarling, on all fours, having spent a small amount of his remaining power to regenerate the claws on all his limbs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, but hopefully, dear readers, you'll enjoy it. Plus chapter 3 will be posted on Thursday! With another lovely art by Mirach! So look forward to that


	3. Chapter 3

Curzon was a Prince of Hell, and carried himself like one. Even during their fight his head was held tall and straight, elegant and long like the rest of his body. He conserved movement, stalking Aziraphale, only attacking with his knife-sharp nails and tail when he saw an opening. Their razor-bladed tips had managed multiple nicks before Aziraphale shifted his skin to scales, in order to be harder and less easy to kill by a thousand cuts. It reminded him of Crowley, of how he started forming scales when he got too drunk or too angry. Aziraphale was grateful to have a constant reminder of his purpose, to guide him through this ordeal. He’d have fallen long ago if he’d given in to despair. As it was, he prayed his thanks for Prince Curzon’s demonic dignity, as it gave him opportunities to rest during the match. 

Eight demons had stood against him, eight demons had tried to kill him and eight demons had failed. But eight demons had each left their mark on his body, worn him down, drawn the reserves of his power until he was wrung out, scrabbling for dregs. Prince Curzon was the ninth, the penultimate obstacle before Aziraphale would be free, would have Crowley back. Soon they could get out of Hell, go wherever they pleased, and that hope burned inside him, mixing with his anger and frustration into a white hot fire that filled his body and fueled him. It made him glow slightly, reflecting the cold blues of burning sulfur at his edges. Curzon blinked, tilting his head this way and that, uncertain of what it meant. Aziraphale sighed, happy to have the moment of rest, but then the Prince licked the long fangs on his muzzle and sprang, uncoiling to close the distance so fast Aziraphale didn’t have a chance to react before being bitten. 

Golden ichor burst from the wound on his thigh, mixing with his red blood, filling Prince Curzon’s mouth and flowing down his chin. Stupid angel, letting his guard down. 

Satan roared, stepping to the edge of the crowd. “Finally, my prince, you show us what we’ve come to see! Bleed him dry!”

Curzon looked Aziraphale dead in the eye and smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with it, then locked his jaw and pulled back. The muscles in Aziraphale’s leg started to tear, ichor pouring from him with the blood, his very essence spilling to the ground as the prince tried to pull the side of his thigh away. Aziraphale shoved his hands in the prince's maw, cutting himself on the serrated teeth inside, hooking his claws on the soft tissues, desperately trying to pry open Curzon’s jaws. 

He couldn’t, and they both knew it. Frustrated, desperate tears formed in his burning eyes. He couldn’t… he couldn’t give up. He couldn’t leave Crowley alone in this horrid place for all of eternity. 

Seizing an idea, Aziraphale slammed his head forward, headbutting the Prince so hard it stunned him slightly. It was enough of a distraction that he failed to notice Aziraphale manifesting fangs, just like Crowley’s, or the poison sacs they emptied when he bit Prince Curzon in the neck. 

The demon seized, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as Crowley’s venom coursed through his body, his teeth losing their grip. Aziraphale mustered the brunt of his strength to pull Curzon off his thigh, so hard that it actually ripped the Prince's jaw off. His own mouth tasted of demon ichor, vile rotten filth and sharp metal that gagged him, but there was no time to be horrified and disgusted by his own actions. Crowley’s poison was not a fatal one, and it would wear off before much longer. Aziraphale pushed his claws through the prince’s neck, pushed through the resistance of the muscle and sinew till they fully impaled it. He could feel the pressure of each of Curzon's final heartbeats as his hand tamponaded the wound. When he pulled it back, all the demon's blood pumped out, tinged with black ichor as it spurted with each heartbeat, covering Aziraphale. Spray turned to a flow, a trickle and finally, his last heartbeat pulsed only a dribble.

The War had not even been this brutal, this disgusting. He’d fought hard and long but he’d been with his fellow angels, he’d had a whole platoon looking out for each other, avenging the fallen together. They had worn their golden scars with pride, with the knowledge that they were on the side of Good, of God. Aziraphale had been stabbed in the other thigh than the one Curzon had mangled, and had spent the last six millenia hiding the scar. Not like Uriel and her glittering burn-scarred face. She wore those wounds with pride. 

There was no one here even to cheer for him, to hope for his victory. Even if he managed to win and heal no one would respect him for his scars, for being so idiotic as to go into Hell unaided. Only the smouldering fire of his love for Crowley, his need to have Crowley back fueled him. And frankly, he’d been a weaker fighter than several of his opponents, it was just his wits and careful strategy that had enabled his victories. He tore the ripped leg of his pants, wrapping a quick tourniquet around his injured thigh and using just enough of his remaining power to make it useable.

He stood, wobbly but triumphant, roaring his own victory at the furious crowd. Just one more. He’d win his last fight and go home with Crowley. He opened eyes all over his body, so he couldn't be taken by a surprise attack again, and waited, resting, for his final opponent to step forward.

Amongst the crowd of jeers and taunts he’d tuned out since the beginning of this ordeal, Aziraphale’s ears picked out a gasp. It was small and quiet, not meant to be heard, but it stood out starkly from the din because it was  _ Crowley _ . He swung his head, looking for the source with hope and desperation. All he wanted was to see his demon safe and sound and then, there he was, standing beside Satan, his face wrinkled in horror and disgust, tears falling unchecked. 

Without his sunglasses on it was obvious what he was looking at and found so repulsive— Aziraphale himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another lovely art by Mirach for this chapter, which I hope everyone is enjoying. Next chapter will go up on Tuesday, which has the third art in it! (it's the last of the H chapters of this H/C, so its all C after that!)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the posting delay, dear readers. I got caught up in TWO ice storms this last week and ended up without heat or power for several days. Warm now though!

Corporate affairs was a dingy corner of Hell, as crowded as the rest of its offices but with rotting corpses forgotten in corners, and half the furniture made of bones from them. Someone had a hobby, and it made it one of the more foul sections of the workplace. Crowley had been waiting there since he suddenly found himself lacking a corporation and back in Hell, unwilling to move about much and draw powerful eyes.

Then other, freshly discorporated demons started showing up. Pissed off, angry demons, each higher in rank than the other and demanding new bodies immediately. (They didn’t get them, of course. Not even the Dukes. What was Hell if not insufferable inefficiency?)

Obviously there was a ranking tournament going on, and a particularly vicious and impressive fighter was murdering their way up the ranks. Hell claimed to be a meritocracy, not like Heaven with their arbitrary hierarchy, but really it was just the rule of the strong over the weak. A new Duke would be crowned by the end of it, he was certain, perhaps a new Prince of Hell. 

Then Beelzebub arrived, calling for Crowley. No point in maintaining a low profile when one of the big wigs was screaming your name, so he pasted on his smarmiest, most cocksure smirk and sauntered out. 

"Be'elsus! Good to see you. Haven't been in touch since our bathtime party," Crowley said. Beelzebub glared but ignored him, calling instead to demand a corporation, saying Satan himself wanted it done now.

They crammed him into a new body like putting a pillow in its case, not even allowing a moment to let him get his limbs in proper working order before Beelzebub was hauling him out by the scruff. Prince Janus stormed in just as they left, discorporated and screaming about revenge, and all the fresh blood pumping in Crowley’s new body drained into one cold lump in his stomach.

Whoever was fighting was very, very strong to have defeated one of the lesser Princes, and that meant a new Prince of Hell had been born. Beelzebub practically dragged him to the arena, their swarm of flies biting those who didn’t get out of their way fast enough, until they threw Crowley at the feet of Satan himself. He spared Crowley only a glance, turning back to the Pits of the Fallen. Without thinking, Crowley followed his gaze. 

Someone was there, hunched over the greater Prince Curzon. It was hard to make out what, exactly, they were doing. There was a crack of bone breaking and the fighter threw Curzon’s jaw to the side. It clattered as it slid teeth up across the pitted ground, ignored as the fighter summarily exsanguinated him and shoved the rest of the gurgling corpse to the edge of one of the sulfur pits, illuminating the gruesome mess that was left of his face in the dancing Hellfire light. 

The winner flicked his wings, stretching them out as he unfurled. They were black, burned, bloody things, as if freshly Fallen. He drug lines in the ground with his long claws, fingers like knives until he was upright, his long, taloned feet holding fast to the ground. Unshakeable, unmovable, he dripped with blood and black ichor, coating most of his glittering scaled body. He had two horns, long and pointed straight up in triumph. 

Crowley didn’t recognize the demon until he bared his teeth, hissing — coughing maybe? — at the crowd. Eyes opened all over his body and he took a grounded stance. 

It was Aziraphale. 

Crowley fell to his hands and knees, tears coming from his newly formed, burning eyes. 

Aziraphale—no, the demon that Aziraphale had become— searched, his eyes falling on Crowley. 

His eyes, his unchanged, earth-colored eyes, connected with Crowley's own snake ones. A long moment passed and then Aziraphale's expression hardened, turned away.

Crowley wept.

Satan took an interest in that, bending and twisting his oversized body to watch, but Crowley couldn’t stop. Aziraphale had fallen so they could both be together in Hell. After Crowley had been so stupid to get himself discorporated, so careless and stupid. This was his fault, he'd ruined the person he loved most. Aziraphale loved being an angel but he'd given it all up, was even fighting desperately for a comfortable rank so that they could eke out a place to be safe together in Hell. 

Crowley scrubbed his face— he had to be strong, had to at least look brave. He wouldn't let Aziraphale's sacrifice be in vain. His angel— his best friend was fighting for their future and no matter how broken his heart was, how cold and shattered he felt inside, he would stand with him. 

Belial, King of Hell, second only under Satan, Head torturer of earthly rulers, who carried Solomon's authority over man and beasts and 50 legions of demons under his chain of command, strode from the crowd, swinging an axe covered in gems and gold.

"Finish him, or I will torture you myself in front of all those you used to command," Satan growled. The crowd cheered.

King Belial bowed to his Emperor, and Crowley flipped him off. 

"Kick his ass and steal his position, Aziraphale! It's time for a new King!" Crowley called, his voice harsh from disuse and crying. To his surprise, a sizable segment of the crowd cheered for that too. Aziraphale blinked, caught off guard, then flashed a fanged smile at Crowley, standing a little taller, more like his usual prim and proper posture. His eyes swiveled back to Belial as he stepped forward, as Aziraphale turned his full attention to him, closing his extra eyes to squaring his stance low and wide. Defensive.

A fighter by design, of course Aziraphale knew what to do. Sometimes it was hard to remember that a stuffy, fussy antiquarian bookseller was in command of his own platoon of angels, a principality crafted by God herself to protect. Crowley was a craftsman, fighting had never been his forte. Even if he'd wanted to jockey for status in Hell he'd never have climbed far up the ladder. But Aziraphale, he'd had a place at the top since before the earth was born. If he won they'd have more freedom than any other demon, being ranked below only Satan himself. 

Though now that they had started fighting, it was apparent to Crowley that Aziraphale was on the verge of collapse, exhausted beyond tired. Each of Belial's blows was parried with so little energy Aziraphale made it look easy, like he wasn't even trying hard, though he was likely just conserving what little energy he had. It enraged Belial, who snarled and growled more and more, his teeth bared in frustration as he swung his axe over and over and yet was thwarted again and again. 

Then Aziraphale slapped the flat of the axe on one particularly spectacular swing, knocking the whole thing into the lava, where it was quickly consumed. Belial screamed in rage, tried to press Aziraphale into the pits with it with a rain of blows, but every time Aziraphale managed to side step the fire and lava at the last second, parrying away the hits that would damage him and ignoring those that wouldn't. There were a lot of ignored blows, so much that Crowley worried they would add up to take him down. 

Aziraphale was so run down he couldn't even seem to muster up a reaction to any of it. Like he'd just gone numb. Or maybe that was just an effect of Falling. Maybe Crowley's closest friend was just like that now, he'd had the joy and brightness burned out of him. No point thinking about it, so he just cheered on Aziraphale as best he could as he was. 

After growing more and more frustrated at being unable to land a solid blow, the king resorted to grappling, grabbing like spartan wrestlers, trying to throw Aziraphale into the pits. 

That went even worse. Aziraphale was rooted to the ground, unyielding and firm. He had always loved sumo, used to go on training trips with the  _ oyakata _ and train with them just because he loved touring Japan from time to time. Belial tried to use his larger, stronger body to shift him but it was like watching a human try to pick up a car. 

They locked, neither able to overpower the other, and then Aziraphale was the one pushing him closer and closer to the lava. Belial snarled and growled, but couldn't seem to stop it. The crowd cheered, clearly happy with either outcome at this point and intent on enjoying any bloodshed.

Then the underhanded piece of shit kneed Aziraphale right in the wound on his thigh. He cried out, falling unbalanced, and King Belial picked him up. He struggled, but the king ignored them as he threw him at the same pit that claimed his axe. 

Crowley screamed as the most important thing in the world arced towards his destruction. He lunged, reaching out, but was held back. 

Aziraphale's wings shot out, wide and reaching, and he beat them hard and fast. It slowed his fall but not quite fast enough. His talons hit, burned away, and he grimaced in pain, beating his wings as fast as he could to save the rest of him. 

Crowley screamed his name over and over. King Belial was right behind him, flying to launch more attacks, now armed with a golden dagger. Crowley had to warn him. He had to save him! Whose hands were holding him back anyway? He just had to break free, to stop this. 

But he couldn't, and Belial stabbed Aziraphale in the chest. Aziraphale twisted, trying to dodge, but the king stretched as far as he could and landed a blow, losing his grip on the dagger as it lodged in Aziraphale's side. 

Gasps and cheers reverberated around the cavern, even Satan himself joining in. Aziraphale's wing beats became irregular and he flew, crooked and failing, to land nearby. He stretched out his hand, reaching to Crowley, before it too dropped and he went limp. 

Belial laughed as he landed only a moment later, one taloned foot on Aziraphale, scratching down his chest without any reaction. The King soaking up the cheers of the crowd as he puffed and preened, stepping off Aziraphale's body to show off. 

Crowley would kill him, would scratch his eyes out and kill him— 

Blood and black ichor bloomed above Belial's heart, soaking through his clothes. He staggered, falling to one knee. His mouth opened as he tried to speak, but only gurgled as more blood poured from his mouth. When he toppled over, his own dagger gleamed from his back, buried to the hilt. 

Aziraphale was pulling himself up, and he huffed a small laugh. He had thrown it, so precisely and with such strength and yet no one had even seen it coming until it was too late. The crowd collectively held their breath as former King Belial exhaled his last and discorporated.

"That's ten, Satan. I win," Aziraphale said, his rough whisper audible to everyone in the shocked silence. 

Satan looked furious, his mouth pressed in a cold line, nostrils flared. The crowd burst into cheers and tumultuous applause drowning out anything he might have growled. The hands holding Crowley finally dropped and he scrambled over to Aziraphale, helping him to sit up and fervently checking his still-oozing wound. It was a lot shallower than it looked, only bleeding blood, not ichor. The whole thing had been an act. 

"You wiley trickster, you," Crowley said. 

"Learned from the best, my dear. Time to go," Aziraphale said, then turned to Satan. "He's mine now. I won fair and square," Aziraphale's body shifted, changing to his usual human form, as he tried to stand, but it was too much for him. His eyes rolled back and Crowley grabbed him, catching him before he could fall, unconscious, to the ground. 

That pleased Satan, his mouth quirking. Before he could do anything Crowley called, using a dribble of a miracle to make sure everyone could hear him. 

"He beat even your right hand man. You said it yourself, if Belial didn't kill him he'd be replaced. Aziraphale earned his new rank. All hail King Aziraphale!" He thrust a hand up and the crowd cheered. He got them to start chanting "hail, hail, hail!" and "New King, New King!"

Satan stopped, frowning, and scanned the crowd. Beelzebub started towards them, stormy and threatening, so Crowley shifted his body. Longer, bigger, he merged with his snake nature until most of his body was serpentine, wrapping his bottom half protectively around Aziraphale. He puffed his wings and hissed, trying to look as intimidating as he could. Inside he was terrified. There was no way, none whatsoever, that he would win if it came to a fight with Beelzebub. Or if Satan turned on them? They’d be fucked.

The Prince of Hell hesitated, looking to Satan, who was still staring at the crowd in annoyance, so Crowley took his chance. His snake form was fast, and he took off at top speed, weaving his way through the crowd and out to the offices of Hell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right! He did it! Done with the H and now onto the C! Next chapter should be up next week!
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed Mirach's art from this chapter. This is actually the art we started with that inspired the collaboration, and will be the last art for this fic.


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